


Christmas in Killarney

by significantowl



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Allergies, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Family, Holidays, Ireland, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3073385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not James' home, but maybe it's a place that has room for him, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas in Killarney

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/gifts).



> A putting up decorations kiss, written for Luninosity as part of a meme on tumblr ♥ It's meant as a sort of follow up to [this ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/923370/chapters/1990511), but I think one makes sense without the other.
> 
> Title from the song of the same name.

To James it seemed as if every evergreen in the west of Ireland had been pressed into service. From the grand wreath that hung from the inn’s sign, to the garlands draped on every windowsill, to the live fir nestled beside the front door, James was beginning to wonder how there could be greenery left for anyone else in County Kerry even before he saw what waited inside.

Michael’s parents must have had an eye out for the hire car’s headlamps, because they were waiting on the front walk before James and Michael had all the luggage out of the boot. Michael’s mother reached for James as soon as she’d let go of her son, and he found himself wrapped up in a hug that was warm, but not tight. Nothing like the squeeze his gran would’ve given him -  _would_  give him, a week from now, when he and Michael made their way to Glasgow for New Year’s. Michael’s dad had him next, in a nice strong one-armed hug punctuated by a pat on the back, and then, after some good-natured arguing over who would carry the suitcases and bags of gifts - James and Michael won out over the Fassbenders - James followed Michael and his family into their home.

It was as if a forest had packed up and marched indoors, and all the evening stars with it. To the right, in one of the inn’s several cosy dining rooms, a fir strung with hundreds of glimmering white lights soared up to the ceiling, delicate baubles glinting prettily on every branch. Its twin stood in the parlour to the left, turning the small room where guests waited for their tables into a winter wonderland. Swags of holly and ivy decked the doorways, sweet orange and clove pomander balls hung along the banister rail, and light flickered everywhere, from graceful white tapers and glass hurricane lamps that spoke of days gone by, and from fairy lights strung high above, whispering of a deeper past, of days of wildness and magic.

Smoke and spice and the sharp press of green wreathed through his lungs. “Fuck,” James breathed, and then, louder, hopefully burying that a bit, “You’ve outdone yourselves,” even though his first and only other visit to the Fassbenders’ had been in early spring, and he had no idea if this was par for the course for them at the holidays or not.

“They try,” Michael said, smiling round wide and happy at everyone.

It was a fantasy, James thought, as he hefted the suitcases up the stairs, while Michael carried the gifts to the rear of the house where the family kept their own private sitting room. It was an investment - a corner of James’ brain, unbidden, had been trying to tot up the cost since he’d stepped through the door. No-one would do this in their own home; that was why they would come here.

Through a heavy oak door, down a narrow passage, up another staircase, and James found himself in the room that had been Michael’s since he was a teenager. Christmas had even come in here, in the form of a small fresh tree on the dresser near the window, and a stuffed Rudolph on the bed whose antlers had been worn down to soft, velvety nubs. James ran his finger over one after dropping the cases at the foot of the bed. He eyed the tree balefully.

"If you had been plastic, my feelings wouldn’t have been hurt," he told it, and began digging around in his bag. There was a dry scratch at the back of his throat, had been since the foyer, and he was probably going to need the antihistamines he always traveled with sooner rather than later. James’d worked one tablet out of the foil packet when he heard the creak of the door behind him, and - instinct - he shoved it down in his jeans pocket before turning to smile at Michael.

"Mam left a space for my crèche on the mantel, but it’s in the attics yet. She said I could carry at least one box down this Christmas, so I could."

James snorted. “Was that your job, then? Carrying things?”

"Ah yeah. One of many."

Perhaps it was hauling decorations that had helped get Michael’s biceps off to an auspicious start in life. James gave the nearest one an appreciative squeeze. Michael hadn’t truly stopped smiling since they’d come in, but the light in his eyes went even brighter at James’ touch, and it quieted some of the unease that had been creeping up James’ spine since Dublin. He tilted up to press a kiss to Michael’s cheek. “Half a minute,” he said, and jerked a thumb toward the loo next door.

Time-honoured ending to all car journeys, wasn’t it? A long healthy piss?

With that out of the way, James washed up and fished the little pill out of his pocket. Some of the yellow coating came off onto his damp fingers, so he quickly dropped it on his tongue and, with his hand as a cup, knocked it back with cold, clear water from the sink. He may have had drops still lingering on his chin when he emerged, if Michael’s curious gaze was any indication, but James resisted the urge to dash at them with his sleeve. “After you.”

He followed Michael up yet another staircase, this one extraordinarily steep and laid with bare, unvarnished planks. The view was worth the climb - Michael’s jeans kept slipping up and down along his narrow hips - and the part of James’ head that wasn’t busy enjoying that was wondering if this little excursion was an attempt on Michael’s part to give him a breather, a moment to acclimate. On his first visit, while Michael’s parents had only been fuckin’ lovely, he’d had his fair share of worries; the second visit should be easier, but it was Christmas, not some random week in March, and easier was relative.

The attic was lit by a bare bulb switched on and off by a pull chain. It had a steep-pitched roof that James could stand up perfectly well towards the centre of, but sent Michael hunching over like an old man. Cardboard boxes were stacked higgledy-piggledy among dusty furniture and racks of clothes hung in zipped-up garment bags. But Michael knew just where to find what he wanted, and pulled down a box jammed between the top of a high wardrobe and the ceiling.

"Here we are," he said, lifting it down to the floor and kneeling in front of it. James followed suit, and got a nose full of dust for his trouble, as Michael stirred the lid; he sneezed three times in quick succession and waited, elbow crooked to his nose, wondering if it was safe, if he were done.

“Ah Christ, let’s get you downstairs,” Michael said, and there was a cloud on his brow when James lowered his arm and blinked at him, wetness pricking at his eyes. And that was no good, especially not at Christmas, so James put an extra little bounce in his feet when he leapt up. “Go on, then,” he said. “Get to carryin’.”

When they knelt in front of the box again, it was in the family’s sitting room, where a fire burned cheerfully in the grate and the heavy branches of yet another fir were hung with with a hodgepodge of ornaments: candy canes, tinseled angels, reindeer made from clothespins, and misshapen red clay blobs that were, James liked to think, young Michael’s primary school arts-and-crafts hour attempts at Father Christmases.

Whether it was a good idea for him to spend much time with his face in a damp evergreen or not - it was a mould allergy more than a tree allergy, and the stuff the thrived where the cut tree met the water that threatened to mess with his head - James had to have a closer look. “Yours or your sister’s?” he asked, leaning over to poke a particularly fat one with a fingertip.

“All mine,” Michael said, “and the reindeer as well.”

James was definitely going to have a better look at those later. But right now, Michael’s long fingers were diving into the battered old box, and James watched as he pulled out shepherds and wise men and angels, arranging them in neat groupings on the rug. The figures were made of moulded rubber; they were dark and faded with age, and there were shiny spots where the colouring on their robes had worn away.

"I always liked this one," Michael said, handing over one of the kings. "Look at how much gold that fella has. I always reckoned myself him when I played nativity."

"You -" James rubbed at one eye. "You played nativity?"

“Sure and I did,” Michael said. “A play I could stage differently every year, I loved it. When I worked out what a virgin was actually meant to be, my Joseph developed some rather dark jealousy issues when it came to Mary and the Angel of the Lord.”

James laughed. “Fuckin’ fantastic. And the split in the top of the baby Jesus’ head?” he asked, plucking the baby out of the manger. “Difficult labour, or worse?”

"I don’t entirely remember," Michael said, stroking under his chin. "Just that when I was very small, I was allowed to play with them in the bath, but that all stopped one year. I think I may have sat on him."                 

James let out a hoot of laughter that sent a grin breaking over Michael’s face. This wasn’t his home, wasn’t his gran’s front room with an artificial tree from a Boxing Day sale in the late eighties, tied to the drapery rod with fishing line to keep it from keeling over. But it was Michael’s home, and back here where everything was real, where a baby Jesus with a busted head was given a place of honour on the mantelpiece, it felt more than ever like a place that might have room for James, too.

He put the figure down carefully before sliding a hand beneath Michael’s jaw, his clear intent making Michael’s smile go as soft and dazzling as the fairy lights, warm as the glowing fire. The welcome on his lips was every bit as warm and sweet, and James pressed into it, not thinking for once about where they were, or the open door, or the likelihood of one of Michael’s parents coming in. Just kissing. Breathing. Loving.

Michael looked slightly stunned for a long moment after, skating a thumb high along James’ cheek. A different kind of first kiss, James thought, and wasn’t that the beauty of a relationship: that there could be so many, infinite and bright as the stars.

He twisted away because he had to, rubbing at the itch in his nose, then pressing a palm against his right eye. He knew Michael’s expression before he even saw it, joy dissolved into worry, and when Michael started saying, “Tell me to fuck off if I ever ask you to go into the attics again,” he spoke over him.

“I took something and I’m fine. It’s still kicking in.”

“All right,” Michael said, gentle and low. “All right. But can we do you one better than  _fine_?”

No. Yes. Green in every room, green pressing into his throat and his nose and his eyes. Of course he’d come prepared, he’d expected something like this if not the full extent of it, and there was nothing at the Fassbenders’ that needed to change for him. Nothing he’d  _want_  them to change, in their business or in their home - he’d seen the magic in both, now, and thought the reality shone more brilliantly than the illusion. “A hot shower before bed won’t hurt,” James said finally, “the steam,” and flicked his eyes towards Michael’s chest, imagining another first for his parents’ home, the two of them in there together, James chasing rivulets over Michael’s collarbone with his tongue.

“Easy,” Michael said, lips curling, a spark in his eyes that suggested he was having some of the same thoughts too.

_Easy._  And that’s just what it was, to leave it there, let Michael think this was about exposure to years of thick-laid dust and nothing more. Easy and wrong, most especially for someone who’d just been mentally singing the praises of fuckin’ truth over fantasy.

“And if you could take that tree out of the bedroom, so it’s not there when I’m sleepin’, that’d not be so bad.” James looked away when he said it, so he didn’t have to watch Michael’s eyes dart over to the fir beside him, or see the worry crease his brow again. So he could accept Michael’s, “Of course,” as if it were the only thing Michael wanted to say.

All right, James was still clinging to a few illusions, but sometimes a body had to.

But not always. Because Michael did speak again, but it wasn’t anything James had expected. It wasn’t a flood of apologies and self-recrimination for bringing James to his parents’ home, like the one James had felt so guilty for prompting last spring, nor an offer to deforest the whole house that James couldn’t possibly accept.

It was perfect.

“Thank you for letting me help,” Michael said quietly. And even though James thought he might hear voices in the corridor, he reached for Michael again and kissed him like the stars above, kissed him until he was breathless with it, kissed him wild.


End file.
